Single in Suburbia Read Online Free Page A

interstate, but the specifics of how it reached her home were hazy.
    Leaving the van in the garage, she stepped into the kitchen. With the kids still at school, the house was pin-drop quiet. The only thing breaking the silence was the refrain “You’re getting a divorce, you’re getting a divorce” that echoed in her head.
    Trying to elude those thoughts, she left the kitchen and moved through the house. In the dining room she paused behind a Chippendale-style chair and tried to see the room as a stranger might. But her mind moved right past the carefully designed mix of antiques and contemporary art to the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, the countless turkeys and hams she’d served to her family there.
    Passing through the formal living room, she crossed the foyer and hesitated in the entrance to Rob’s former home office. The antique desk and leather wing chair were gone, the shelves emptied of books and mementos. Bright squares and rectangles dotted the chocolate brown walls where Rob’s gallery of fame—the carefully arranged shots of Rob glad-handing local politicians and the occasional sports figure—had once hung.
    Turning her back on the empty office, she moved to the family room and breathed in its essence. The room was both chic and comfortable, just as she’d intended. The couch, covered in a cheery cranberry chenille was flanked by club chairs with ottomans in a bold cranberry and black pattern.
    The remnants of a bowl of popcorn sat on the edge of the massive wrought-iron coffee table, which could, and had, hold an entire meal.
    Stepping toward the big screen television, Amanda ran her gaze over the built-in bookcases that surrounded it. They were packed with books and magazines and small finds from arts and crafts shows. Framed photographs from family vacations and holidays dotted the shelves. Amanda lifted each photo in turn, studying the poses and faces like an anthropologist might, searching for what lay behind the entwined arms and happy faces of her family.
    In the photos, Meghan and Wyatt’s gap-toothed smiles gave way to braces; their baby smooth skin to the marks of adolescence. Rob looked the same in every shot: tall and blond, his smile one of supreme confidence. She’d thought him straightforward and uncomplicated, even downright predictable, but she’d been wrong on all counts.
    She reached for a photo of the two of them in Vail just over a year ago. Holding it up for closer examination, she looked for signs of his discontent. Had he already begun feeling trapped? Started plotting his escape?
    And what of her?
    She remembered handing the camera to a sulky fourteen-year-old Meghan, still angry that she hadn’t been allowed to bring a friend on their family vacation. She’d been trying to soothe her daughter’s ruffled feathers, bargaining for a smile, trying to manage her family’s reactions and feelings as she always did even as the picture was snapped.
    As a result her brow appeared furrowed and her eyes telegraphed her concern. Dismayed, she noticed that none of the shots of her reflected enjoyment. In picture after picture she saw the careful, overly organized woman she’d prided herself on being; a woman preoccupied with the details of their lives.
    Had she never been carefree? Unconcerned about what everyone else felt and wanted? What had she felt and wanted then? She couldn’t remember.
    Opening a set of cabinet doors, she began to rifle through the stacked photo albums, searching for a shot that reflected her real self. But even the shots of their early married days, when she’d been all of twenty-one, showed the preoccupied smile and furrowed brow.
    Worried now, she rooted through the cabinet, finally pulling out a battered imitation leather album whose binding was cracked from age and neglect. Clutching her prize to her chest, she plopped down onto the sofa and opened it.
    The photographs were dated and dog-eared; the captions scrawled beneath them were written in the